by Sophie Gee
When Lord Petre put the matter to himself, it was of course without any trace of irony. He believed that for the sake of his family and his fellow Jacobites he must make a public break with Arabella Fermor, and he did not stop to consider that in doing so he chose one betrayal over another. But he was also beginning to feel that he deserved something of a reward for his sacrifice. Since he had been forced to give up all hopes of heroism, since he had agreed to marry Catherine Walmesley, should he not retain Arabella as his treasure? He was the victim of a devil’s bargain. Arabella was bold, she was worldly; she liked to laugh at the conventions of their society. Why could she not remain his mistress after the marriage? Why should he not keep that consolation?
His thoughts were interrupted by Sir George Brown, one of the members of the party in which he was standing.
“Miss Fermor and her friends are looking toward us, my lord,” Sir George was saying. “If you flirt too outlandishly with these young ladies, Miss Fermor will begin to suspect that she has lost her admirer.”
Lord Petre perceived that this was a chance to move the conversation in the direction that was required.
“Miss Fermor does not lose admirers; she only gains them,” he replied. “If I am always at Miss Fermor’s side, I shall appear a proud, conceited fellow who believes that he is the only man worth a lady’s notice. But if you desire me to play the flirt with Miss Fermor, I will willingly do so.”
Clarissa Williamson, who obviously did not desire it, gave a pretty shake of her hair at this point, and said, “Then the rumor is not true, my lord, that you and Miss Fermor are engaged?”
He smiled down at her. “I am a mere mortal!” he replied, with a dramatic toss of his own curls. “One does not ask a goddess for her hand in marriage. She would laugh me away.”
“I do not believe that you can be so very afraid of her, my lord,” Miss Williamson replied with a charming giggle. “I have seen you at her side on many occasions. But we shall devise a task to test your mettle. Sir George! What mighty labor can we give my Lord Petre to show his fortitude?”
Sir George gave a cough of nervous excitement, wondering whether Clarissa Williamson might be flirting with him.
“’Zounds!” he exclaimed, tapping his snuffbox. “Let us send him on an errand,” Sir George replied, feeling, for the first time, what it was to play a part in a battle of wits, however few his lines. “A plague on it, my lord! How am I to flirt with Miss Williamson and her charming friends when you are by?” he asked. “You must make love to another woman instead, while I try my luck with these ladies, by gad.”
“I shall make love to any woman you choose,” said the baron with a smile.
“Then let it be Miss Fermor!” said Sir George. “You shall show Miss Williamson that you are not afraid of her!”
Miss Williamson looked somewhat disappointed in the outcome of this exchange, but, having styled herself a girl of pluck and energy, could hardly retreat now.
“Indeed, my lord!” she cried. “You shall be bold—I command you to defy the goddess Arabella Fermor before the afternoon is out.” Lord Petre knew that this was precisely the excuse he required to discharge his actions toward Arabella. Fearful that Clarissa might withdraw the direction, he stepped away from her group, taking advantage of the fact that Lady Mary Pierrepont was passing by.
“My lady!” he exclaimed. “Ever since Miss Oldmixon’s assembly I have meant to compliment you on your daring at the card table.”
Lady Mary looked at him, surprised at this abrupt speech. “I show great daring at all times, my lord,” she replied.
He bowed to acknowledge it. “But I was particularly struck by the boldness of your bet,” he added. “One is not accustomed to see such pluck and talent in a lady—least of all in a lady who plays alone.”
“When one is gambling for high stakes, it is always best to play alone,” she answered. “I have found that a partner is seldom to be trusted. Do you not agree with me?”
Lord Petre made no answer.
During the afternoon, the guests began to move indoors. Some of them played cards while the others sat talking in small groups. Clarissa Williamson bounded up to Lord Petre, who was standing next to one of the big windows, a little apart from his acquaintances.
“What do you gaze down upon so wistfully, my lord?” she asked, following his gaze. “Ah! The goddess Fermor, sporting in the garden. I hope that you will not neglect your undertaking.”
For a moment he made no reply, but stood silently, deep in thought. Then he roused himself and answered, “By no means, madam. I am merely considering my best approach.”
William Dicconson, who stood nearby, overheard this last remark. He stepped up to join them, and Lord Petre caught a draft of the strong, sweet smell of liquor on his breath.
“Are you afraid of a woman, my lord?” he asked with a leer. Lord Petre took a step backward and glanced at Clarissa, wondering whether she would guess that Dicconson’s remark was meant as a provocation.
“Miss Williamson and I have been exchanging a joke, sir,” he answered. “I said earlier that I should be afraid to flirt with a lady so beautiful as Miss Arabella Fermor.”
“And I said that he must test his courage—by flirting with her openly,” Miss Williamson rejoined.
“Have you considered how so bold a step might be brought off?” Dicconson asked, turning away from Miss Williamson and speaking to Lord Petre in a voice that was edged with aggression.
“I believe that I have a plan in view,” the baron replied.
“Then you must execute it swiftly,” said Dicconson, in the same unpleasant tone. “Or the day will be over—and then it will be too late.”
Arabella came in from the gardens alone, for Lady Salisbury and Henrietta had remained outside, wanting to take a turn in the parterre. They had not invited her to join them. As she entered the room, several people turned to look at her, but spun quickly away when she met their stares. Martha and Teresa sat on a sofa near the doorway, and Martha invited her to sit down with them. She accepted, and took her seat quietly. She thought that the laughter in Lord Petre’s group had increased in volume since she had arrived, but she pushed it from her mind, telling herself that it must be a nervous imagining.
She heard Martha talking about Alexander, relieved that it was a subject on which they knew she had nothing to say; she had no energy for conversation. Lady Mary Pierrepont was sitting just across the room with Lady Castlecomber, talking confidentially. It appeared that they, too, had turned their heads to avoid her eye.
“Lord Petre was right”—Arabella heard Martha say, and her head turned in instinctive reaction to the sound of his name. She saw immediately that Teresa had noticed it, and wished that she had taken more care to conceal her interest. “—when he said that Alexander would enjoy this spectacle,” she concluded. Arabella dropped her gaze again listlessly. “I do wish he had been asked,” Martha added. “We must remember all the details for him.”
Teresa was about to answer, when there was a particularly boisterous gale of laughter from Clarissa Williamson’s part of the room, and all three of the girls turned around to look. They saw that with a lot of fanfare and dramatic movement, Lord Petre was beginning to move away from his party. He stopped and looked back at them, wanting to be sure that everybody was watching. Arabella saw that Clarissa Williamson raised a hand to point in her direction, but she dropped it abruptly when she caught Arabella’s eye. The sound of their laughter had brought all of the conversations in the room to a halt for a moment, and people glanced around to see the source of their merriment. There was a hiatus, but then the noise began again, mounting steadily.
Martha and Teresa had just started to talk again when Arabella saw that Lord Petre was walking toward her. His eyes were upon her, but she forced herself not to turn or look. She could feel that his progress was watched by all his companions, and that Mary Pierrepont and Lady Castlecomber were watching him, too.
For a second she thought
that he was coming to speak to her privately, but then she realized that it could not be so. He was walking purposefully; he was nearly in front of her. Teresa and Martha, who had been speaking softly, unconsciously fell silent.
Her eyes were in her lap, but she saw from under her lashes that he was standing before her. She made herself look up at him, and found that he was smiling—smiling at her—it was the old, familiar smile of their secret intimacy. She exhaled loudly, and felt a rush of relief. She glanced aside to Martha and Teresa, and saw that they were smiling, too. The room had grown quiet. The seconds seemed slow and deliberate while she sat and waited; then he bent down, one knee raised in front of him. She caught a glimpse of Lady Salisbury and Henrietta walking in, watching and smiling, too. She felt glorious, exultant: her anxieties had been needless. Lord Petre was kneeling before her. All eyes were on her now, but she did not mind.
So this, she thought triumphantly, was what it felt to be a baron’s wife.
He put his hand into his pocket and drew something out. He had closed his fist around it—but Arabella saw a flash and the point of a blade. He reached toward her, and she felt the touch of his fingers on her neck—so familiar, and yet she started in shock. There was something cold.
It felt like steel. For a terrifying moment she thought that he carried a knife, and that he was going to kill her. She shrieked—she could not help it—in her panic she hardly knew that it came from her own mouth. She heard the sweep and click of sharp blades coming together, and then she felt a lock of her hair falling away. Lord Petre snatched it up.
“My prize!” he called aloud. “A trophy from Miss Arabella Fermor—I have stolen a lock from the goddess Diana.”
To her amazement, the room began to applaud. The sound was tremendous. It was mingled with laughter; at first uncertain; then unrestrained. She stared at her hands in confusion. With an ache of straining muscles, she forced herself to look at him—he was brandishing the lock in the air, smiling idiotically at Miss Williamson, who clapped and squealed. The room around her was a blur of jeering faces. Alarm, embarrassment, shame overspread her features; she could not prevent it.
There was a brief ebb in the general laughter, and Clarissa’s voice rang out clearly: “Even the goddess of chastity cannot resist the baron’s conquering steel!”
Arabella shrank from the artless cruelty of her remark. Good God, she thought—that Diana costume. How vainly she had bragged of being the goddess of chastity. She regretted it bitterly now.
In a low voice, though not so low that Arabella could not hear it, Henrietta quipped, “Would that he had confined himself to seizing those hairs less in sight.”
There was more laughter, another scattered shower of applause. Arabella tried to laugh, too, but she was frozen. She must not cry, but the tears were smarting behind her eyes. She put her hand up to feel the place where Lord Petre had taken the lock. There was a blank space where the hair had been: a gap, with short stubby ends that felt prickly to her touch. Martha and Teresa were staring at her with anguished faces.
“A trifle, a trifle,” she murmured. “’Tis but a trifle.”
For a few more minutes, though they felt like an hour, she endured the sound of laughter. At last she saw the room turning back into little groups, embarking upon new stories told in lighthearted merriment. Could it be that they thought so little of what had just transpired? It was the greatest agony of Arabella’s life. But they were forgetting her already. Lord Petre himself was talking to Clarissa Williamson again, and he did not meet her eye. Finally she thought that she could trust herself to stand. She got to her feet.
As she left the room, people looked around at her again. They smiled good-naturedly, but to her it seemed malevolent. She smiled faintly in return, the muscle of her lip twitching. For an instant she relaxed her face, but the tears rose in her eyes, and she knew that she must pull up the corners of her mouth again.
At last she was in the gallery. Martha and her friend Margaret Brownlow were beside her. “Are you unwell, Arabella?” Martha asked. Her face, close to Arabella’s own, was full of feeling. Arabella reached behind herself for a seat, and Martha took her arm to help her to a low upholstered bench. She sat down on one side of her, and Margaret Brownlow sat on the other.
“There, Miss Fermor!” Margaret said. “He means to make you his wife. There can be no clearer proof. The taking of a lock of hair—’tis a prelude to a far greater step.”
Arabella was grateful to Margaret for understanding so little. But she said, feeling her face tremble as she did so, “He does not mean to make me his wife. Otherwise he would not have let the world know that I am his mistress.”
The girls were shocked, but she hardly cared. She would regret it later, but at this moment she was concerned only that they should remain beside her on the seat. She could not go back into that room.
Martha was, indeed, looking at Arabella in amazement. Until now, she had still not been sure that the rumors Teresa repeated from James Douglass and the girls in town were true. When she had seen them on the river she knew that her cousin must have spent more time alone with Lord Petre than she ought to have done; she had guessed that there had been some inconsequential intimacy, which she knew most women allowed. But the discovery that Arabella had actually been his mistress, when their engagement was not certain, stunned her. She did not censure Arabella for it, but she could not help but think that she had been a fool. Arabella had shown even less common sense than her sister, she reflected.
Even so, she did not feel that much harm could come of Lord Petre’s antics today. The matter would be soon forgotten, and it would do no lasting damage to her cousin. Arabella felt his gesture as a cruel rejection, but Martha did not think that others would see it as such. They sat together for about fifteen minutes, Arabella hardly speaking. At last Martha suggested that she accompany her home.
Arabella agreed, but said, with something of her usual spirit, “I must go back into the room again. I cannot have them think that he has destroyed me.”
After Arabella walked out, Lady Castlecomber, who was still sitting with Lady Mary Pierrepont, remarked, “Were I Miss Fermor, I should ask for the lock back.”
“Ah—the sad truth about hair!” Lady Mary replied. “A curl that has been cut can never be restored.”
Across the room, Lady Salisbury took Henrietta confidentially by the hand and pulled her down to Arabella’s empty sofa.
“If I were Miss Fermor, I should be wild,” she said. “What can the baron be thinking of? Everybody will know now that they are lovers. It is a blemish on her honor.”
Henrietta was hardly listening, looking anxiously instead at the front of her dress. “Take care! You nearly made me spill my tea,” she said. “I might have stained my new brocade.” Then she registered something of Lady Salisbury’s last remark. “What did you say of Arabella’s honor?”
“It will be blemished forever,” Lady Salisbury pronounced. She paused dramatically. Then in a loud voice she asked, “Do you know what I have just heard, Henrietta?”
As she had intended, her voice was audible to the entire room. “Lord Petre does not mean to marry Arabella at all,” she exclaimed. “William Dicconson just told me—in confidence, of course—that the rumor about his ward is true.”
Arabella returned to the room just as Lady Salisbury’s voice rang out:
“Lord Petre has been engaged these several weeks to Miss Catherine Walmesley.”
Lady Salisbury and Henrietta watched Arabella coolly as she came toward them, very pale. They made no move to accommodate her on their sofa.
“Oh—I did not know you were returned to us, Miss Fermor,” said Lady Salisbury with hauteur.
Arabella opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She stood quite still for several moments, and then tried to walk out of the room again. But as she began to move away she fainted.
Every man in the room rushed toward her, and the women crowded around behind. Henrietta and Lady Salisbur
y remained seated, watching disdainfully. Lord Petre reached her first. He dropped down onto his knees beside her and snatched her into his arms. The crowd gasped. He lifted her limp form into a chair, and one of the ladies pressed her fan into his hands. He waved it in front of her. Gently, he pushed the hair back from her face, and instinctively reached down to the ribbon of her stays, but checked himself. He glanced up, and saw that William Dicconson was watching him.
One person pressed in to offer snuff, another a glass of wine, then a cup of tea. But Arabella’s eyes remained closed.
At last she began to come around, opening her eyes in a weak, fluttering motion. She became aware of a low murmur of whispering around her, and then a crush of people pressing in. She realized that she had fainted, and she gripped the edges of the sofa in alarm. Had she looked undignified when she fell? She wondered how had she been moved to her present position. She blinked her eyes open again, and saw Lord Petre kneeling beside her. She imagined what must have happened: he had lifted her up, insensible, and placed her on the sofa as though he were embracing her. But then Lady Salisbury’s words reverberated in her head: engaged these several weeks to Miss Catherine Walmesley. She felt as though the shame would choke her. How dare he presume to touch her in such circumstances—how greatly did it exacerbate her humiliation.
She struggled to sit up, recoiling from Lord Petre’s attempt to help her. “Please leave me, sir,” she said in a clear voice. “I have no desire to receive your attentions.”
Now Lord Petre looked pale; he tried to appear affronted, as though he had merely been attempting a courtesy. He rose to his feet, glancing around anxiously to see how many people had heard.
Martha knelt down to her cousin instead. “We are ready to take you home,” she whispered. “A boat is waiting at the river.” She took Arabella by the arm and began to lead her from the room.